Tempest
by agryu
Summary: /AC/ The cold of winter bites into all, and sometimes, an Assassin need only be a man.


Author's Note: On request of Story.

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><p><strong>Assassin's Creed:<strong> _Tempest_

Masyaf, circa 1190.

The white was blinding. The pale cast of the sky bled easily into the snow upon the mountains, an odd color for the coming night. The Assassin watched his breath furl away into the wind with detached interest, clicking his tongue quietly to his steed as he directed it along the invisible path.

The gales of coming snowfall seeped past his robes and cloak, chilling him, but not unexpectedly so. The mountains were cold, they always had been.

After these hours he had spent in travel, the bared metal of his blades seared his flesh at the slightest touch, branding his fingers whenever he checked them habitually. Still, he did not shift them, their presence at his waist and shoulder too familiar, too comforting. He could not risk hesitation in drawing his weapons should he be attacked in this snowstorm.

But even this thought was met with dry amusement. Few knew these roads up to Masyaf, and those who walked them were either brothers, or the living dead. Winters were not kind to the lost, nor were the jagged rocks and cliffs that hugged the path as a coiled snake.

He absently brushed off the flakes that had gathered on his sleeves and saddlebags, mentally counting the hours before the height of darkness and merciless wind. He would need to stop for the night, at least during that stretch of the storm. Below him, his stallion only plowed on through the deep banks of white, sturdy and relentless as the mountain itself.

Minutes slipped by in a wisp, with the thickening snowfall masking the pass of time and most of his surroundings. However, even with this, his sharp eye caught the odd shape upon the ground by the cliff edge, an uneven mass lying covered in windblown mounds.

The Assassin halted upon the path, staring a moment at the barely visible corpse of a fine warhorse, its mane still shifting in the wind, the muscles not yet shrunken. It could not have lain here more than an hour.

His eyes narrowed a little as he noticed its missing tack, and the slender build of its foreign breeding. He had heard that knights would sooner eat the leather of their saddles than desecrate the bodies of their steeds. He would have snorted at the memory of this near-ironic sanctity of the dead, had he not been cautious of this beast's rider, who was likely still nearby.

The Assassin knew these mountains, and knew too of the scattering of crevices marring the walled stone rising along his left, just deep enough to be caves. A man without a steed would seek shelter, above all.

He hushed the uneasy nicker of his horse as he slid from its back, and led it into the lee of the cliff face, hidden from sight and wind. If he were to fall, he at least would not grant his enemy a new means of travel.

With his beast sheltered, he stepped back onto the path, pulling his cloak tighter about his shoulders as the gale winds caught at his robes, and piled snow upon the leather of his boots. He sighed in quiet annoyance, and bowed his head to the snowfall as he pressed forward.

He kept a shoulder to the jagged line of rocks that traced the edge of the path, stretching all his senses to search for the potential enemy. Sure enough, it was the evidence of fire he felt first, the threads of warm air seeping out from one cave as regularly as the breath of a dying man.

The Assassin paused beside the tear in the cliff face, setting a hand to his saber, and flexing the cold from his joints as he tensed into a readied stance.

He released a breath as he leaned around the corner, peering into the hollow of darkness, and near expecting the Crusader to leap upon him then and there. However, all he saw was the low fire at the center of the cave, its tongues short and guttering, and its light barely reaching the walls of the narrow space.

The sudden flash of white at his peripheral vision sparked the eagle into motion, and he pivoted instinctively, pressing himself against the opposite wall of the crevice and keeping the fire between him and his enemy. He took him in with a glance, his gold-hilted sword brandished protectively before him.

The older man's sunken eyes were starkly visible in the firelight, his own weapon held out in response to the threat, and the scarlet cross upon his tabard near begging for the strike. "Well now, wolves I was expecting, but not in this form," he spoke quite wryly, his voice that of a man plagued by recent trials.

The Assassin only looked upon him mutely, studying his bearing, and the tense grip upon his glinting broadsword. There was still strength behind it, the resolve not yet dulled from the eyes. The promise of retaliation was written into the Templar's very stance.

He berated himself a little tersely, realizing that he had not heard the other draw his sword – the Crusader had likely been sitting with it at hand, ready for just such an attack. Regretfully, he knew that the wide blade held a distinct advantage in such a choked space.

The Assassin shifted to his left, back towards open air, but the other checked him just as carefully, intercepting him with the warning point of his sword, and forcing him to move in the opposite direction, away from freedom. The enemy smirked, surprisingly at ease even with this phantom of death so close.

"Do not overestimate your own skills, Assassin. I can easily just run you through before you even move."

"Then try it." The challenge was calm, cutting sharp as the mountain wind.

"And he speaks," the Templar remarked coolly, his blade writing warning lines into the air as he backed the younger one deeper into the cave, he evidently knowing his weapon's advantage. "I was beginning to think you had lost your tongue."

"And evidently yours has near withered," he returned rigidly. "Have you been alone so long that you would even strike a conversation with an enemy?"

"The winds aren't much of conversationalists, no," the other mused, starting only slightly as the Assassin feinted, as if testing the water, and they circled again, neither willing to strike first. Between them, the fire only guttered, its shallow light tracing the metal of the swords crossed over it.

The impending duel balanced on a blade's edge, and the very storm itself seemed to still, just for a moment, as either opponent drew a breath and lunged, simultaneous, as if each were the other's shadow on the wall. Tip on tip, then blade and hilt, the two swords met and strained, the high-pitched scrape reverberating painfully against the stone.

Their blades were locked unheedingly, thus in a desperate attempt for an upper hand, both twisted sharply in an attempt to disarm the other. Fortunately – or fatefully – both were successful, and as Templar and Assassin stumbled backward to regain their footing and avoid the flames, they realized that their weapons had both been thrown clear, tumbling out into darkness and snow.

They each snatched at their second weapons, but both paused as if looking into a mirror, realizing that their actions were mimicked, and met draw for draw, strike for strike. The Assassin scowled upon his enemy, hating how closely matched they were.

The other seemed to realize this as well, and with some cautious finality, he met the hooded eyes and slowly released his grip on his sheathed dagger, smirking with a measure of satisfaction as the younger one also relaxed his stance.

"I suppose this is a stalemate." The Assassin's voice was tight, the words spoken in a quiet growl. However, the Crusader only shook his head solemnly, taking a few steps away and looking upon him with lightly mocking pity.

"Not a stalemate, Assassin, a truce. Or do you not recognize one?"

"A truce?" There was a humorless laugh from past the white hood. "I did not think you and your brothers knew of the word."

"You or I may not like it, but a truce, even just for the night, is only fitting."

He tilted his head slightly, confused, and the Crusader clarified, a rueful smile at his lips, "I don't expect you heretics to recognize today, but murderers as you are, you are still men, correct? Not beasts to slay another on such a sacred day?"

The Assassin was silent, knowing what he was referring to, but frowning at it. Motives did not change just because of a special occasion; vendettas did not dull, nor did blades. This day was no different from any other.

"Besides, it is pointless," the man continued, pointedly spreading his hands as if in nonchalance, or an offer of peace, before easily lowering into a sit by the bonfire. "Do you really think us killing each other in the middle of nowhere will actually have an effect on the war?"

"I have my orders, as do you, Templar."

"Ah yes, your orders from a scholar, holed up in his library, and mine from a general, shouting demands from his tent. Yet neither of them care to brave the winter winds next to their men, eh?"

The Assassin did not respond, and much as he disliked it, he could hear the storm picking up just outside, howling and heavy with snowfall. It would be dangerous to travel now, even for someone who well knew the way.

Slowly, he joined the Templar on the ground, sitting across the fire from him at the farthest point possible, his eyes not leaving the other's face. A flash of teeth as his enemy grinned at him, dark amusement visible, though he showed no signs of hostility. "You might as well relax, Assassin. You may not acknowledge our holidays, but I on the other hand would rather not stain my blade tonight, even with the blood of a dog."

He scoffed in response, still guarded, but his tone was light. "You appeal to my being human, then call me a dog. I suppose I should not be surprised of your two-facedness."

The other shrugged, casual in his insults. "You are the infamous jackals of Masyaf, it cannot be helped. Don't deny it, I'm sure you and yours are no less generous in your slanders of us."

"…No, perhaps not."

There was a stretch of silence, he knew not how long, but in it, the Templar watched him with some evident curiosity. "You do not even know my name, do you? Do you ever care to? Those men you kill?"

"Much as you may like to think otherwise, I actually do, yes. The deaths we cause are not as pointless as you'd care to think."

"They do not seem to be for much good, given all the battles and conflicts you seem to spark."

"Ah, but battles are exactly what we wish to cause sometimes." The other raised a questioning brow, and the Assassin went on calmly, "Are you not fighting your precious crusade for the same reason? Battles in exchange for peace?"

A pause, and the older man allowed a bark of a laugh, thoughtlessly tossing more kindling into the fire. "Odd isn't it, how our goals are so similar? Yet your Order so persists in striking a blade into the heart of mine."

"Only so far as yours insists striking one into ours."

"Blow after blow, death after death. It never seems to stop, does it?" the Templar asked with a smirk, though not one quite as venomous as before. "A tiresome battle, but a fair one. With worthy adversaries."

Hesitation, then a solemn nod. "No other battle is worth fighting."

The hour passed as such, and the moon began to make brief appearances through the winding cloak of clouds, sparking the snow with brief patches of light and marking the gentling of the storm. The Assassin glanced to the hushing embers of the fire, tending to it absently and stirring up the flames again - his eyes leaving the other for the first time since he had sat down.

"Assassin."

He tensed slightly, nearly having forgotten that he was in the presence of an enemy, but the Crusader had not moved, and spoke quite nonchalantly, "I was sent here to search for the location of your base. Regretfully, I may have to report that there was nothing up here but snow and the lonely wind."

His brow furrowed as he realized the implications, but the Assassin only hesitated slightly as he stood, accepting the indirect invitation to leave. "A shame, truly. Though you may try your luck at the nearest town from here, to the west, only two hours journey on foot."

The Templar nodded, the barest of gratitude, which was answered by a slight bow in farewell. The wind was quiet now, as if in respect of these promises that would not be mentioned again. A final exchange as the Assassin stepped onto the silent snow upon the mountain, but still he did not look back.

"_Joyeux Noel, ami._"

"…Excuse me?"

"It's nothing, jackal. Be gone, the battle can wait."

They said nothing further as they parted, realizing that none would ever know of this night of spoken gifts, just one of the many threads in the tempest. He was not a general, or a lieutenant of the cross, and he in turn was not a master, or the famed eagle of Masyaf.

History would never care to know their names, but perhaps that did not matter.

Ending.

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><p>Author's Note: Hm this might be my only AC fic without any actual bloodshed. Though it's appropriate for the season I suppose - happy holidays to all of you.<p> 


End file.
